INT. DEATH HOUSE – RELIQUARY – NIGHT
Background Music: He Is The Ancient, He Is The Land | Death House Chants
The air is colder here, thick with something older than words, something woven into the stone itself. The thin mist clings to the floor, curling around boots, around stone, like fingers reaching, grasping, remembering.
The wooden cross beams groan beneath the weight of the house, as if the structure itself resents the burden of what was buried here. The walls hold chiseled alcoves, each cradling something grotesque—trinkets meant for devotion, relics meant for sacrifice, forgotten remnants of a twisted past. The party passes them, disgust written large on their faces.
Then—the corridor beyond. The ceiling sags, bending under time’s pressure, leading toward a slope of stone descending into murky, black water. And beyond that— A rusted portcullis, its iron bars sealed tight, watching, waiting.
The chant is strongest here, no longer murmuring, no longer distant—present, pounding, weaving itself into their bones. And finally—the words. Echoing, relentless, bound to the very walls of this place.
CHANTING VOICES
"He is the Ancient."
"He is the Land."
INT. DEATH HOUSE – SUBMERGED CHAMBER – NIGHT
The chanting grows louder, no longer distant—pressing, weaving through the stagnant air, curling around them like unseen fingers. Fleetwood steps forward cautiously, the water swirling around his boots, pressing against his calves in sluggish resistance. Felonious tilts his head, flicking his fingers slightly, feeling the weight of magic thickening in the mist ahead. Silverleaf exhales slowly, adjusting her grip on her bow, keeping her stance firm despite the uneasy footing. Clarion tightens her grip on the amber shard, its warmth flickering rapidly, pulsing against her palm.
Then—they reach the blockage. The rusty iron portcullis stands before them, its bars sealed tight, separating them from whatever waits beyond. Fleetwood grits his teeth, pressing his fingers against the metal, testing its strength. Felonious murmurs something under his breath, calculating its resistance. Silverleaf steps closer, scanning the submerged chamber beyond.
Beyond the portcullis—dark outlines, barely visible against the rolling mist. A half-submerged chamber, water lapping against decayed stone, the silence broken only by the persistent chant. A raised stone dais, standing against the murk, its presence deliberate, commanding, meant for something—or someone. The chant presses onward, pounding, unrelenting—inviting, demanding. And the house breathes.
Greegan scans the room, eyes sharp, flicking his gaze toward the mechanism that operates the portcullis.
Then—he finds it. A chain, rusted, old—broken. He picks up the two ends of the chain, pressing them together.
Then—his breath stills. Rose’s voice slips through his lips, layered beneath his own, quiet but steady, weaving magic through the silence.
ROSE (through GREEGAN): "Thurirlthir." (Translation subtitle: “Mending”)
The chain shudders, the break smoothing, sealing itself with quiet precision, restoring the mechanism to its proper form. Fleetwood turns the wheel, eliciting a rusty shriek but raising the portcullis, and allowing them to traverse into the chamber beyond.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – PROFANE CHAMBER – NIGHT
The smooth masonry walls stretch outward, offering perfect acoustics—but now, there is only silence.
Featureless stone pillars reach toward the ceiling, supporting a space built for ritual, for something beyond sight.
Murky water covers most of the floor, lapping against stone, its surface shifting with the quiet, oppressive breath of the room. Stairs rise to dry stone ledges hugging the walls, offering safe vantage—if such a thing exists here. Then—the dais.
An octagonal rise, standing above the water, deliberately placed, meant to command the space, meant to serve its true purpose. Rusty chains dangle from the ceiling, their shackles empty now, but never truly forgotten.And below them—the altar. Carved with hideous depictions of grasping ghouls, the surface stained with dry blood, the past etched into its very form.
Then—the bundle. Small. White. Resting atop the altar. Surrounded by pulsating, fleshy tendrils, curling, twisting, moving in unnatural rhythm.
Then—the breach.
The far wall gives way to a dark cave, its depths swallowed in rolling mist. The tendrils stretch into the darkness, connecting to something—a hulking shadow, bloated, rising and falling with slow, shuddering rhythm.
Then—silence. The ghostly chanting—the sound that has lingered, pressed against their ears since entering the dungeon—falls silent.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – ALTAR CHAMBER – NIGHT
Clarion moves forward toward the altar, slow, deliberate, her theological knowledge guiding her gaze as she reads the horrors woven into its design.
The words—cut into the flat stone, deep, undeniable, offering only a single command.
FEED HIM
And then—the tendrils. They pulse, fleshy masses shifting, curling toward the bundle upon the altar, moving with unnatural grace, with disturbing intent. Inset within them—human teeth, buried, gnashing softly, waiting for something—someone—to act.
Then—Clarion speaks.
Her voice is steady, controlled, carrying quiet knowledge.
CLARION: "This was never meant to save them. It offers only damnation."
The chant does not resume—it waits.
Cut to:
INT. DEATH HOUSE - MAIN HALLWAY- MIDNIGHT
The grandfather clock at last strikes midnight, its toll echoing, pounding through the entire house, shaking the air itself— BONG. BONG. BONG.
Background music shifts: House of Doom
The fleshy mass shudders, twitching, convulsing, writhing against the tendrils that bind it to the cavernous breach. Then—a sound. A titanic roar, guttural, booming, shaking the walls—
Or—a baby’s cry, writ impossibly large yet fragile, trembling, carrying something aching and raw, curling into the stagnant air, pressing against them like breath. Then—movement.
Clarion stands tall, divine magic cascading over her allies, removing their wounds, washing away weakness—she cannot afford hesitation now.
Fleetwood plows into the pestilent mass as it starts to move, his blade carving away tendrils, mouths, eyes that form from the fleshy blob. The air is electric, pulsing with divine energy, searing heat, and grotesque motion—the battle is in full force. Felonious blasts the horror with a fireball - burning away much of the outer mass but hitting Fleetwood in the process. Inside the mass, a twisted ribcage is exposed - and within it the form of a writhing infant.
Fleetwood grits his teeth, ignoring the pain of Felonious’s reckless fireball, adjusting his grip, hacking deeper into the rubbery tendrils.
Felonious steps back slightly, his eyes locked on the exposed ribcage, the writhing form within—his spell tore into the necrotic bulk, but now they see the terrible truth.
Silverleaf leaps onto the altar, scrabbling, trying to keep footing, grasping at the white-wrapped bundle, then splashes into the scummy water, clutching the small white bundle close, trying to assess whether it truly is Walter—her heart pounds, but she doesn’t let go.
Greegan growls in frustration as his dagger sticks, embedded deep within the mound’s blubbery flesh—he braces a foot against the mass, yanking hard, trying to free it before the horror retaliates.
The chanting is gone, but something else takes its place—a deep, unholy groaning, a sound pulled from the depths of suffering, as the fleshy monstrosity writhes, shuddering from the damage inflicted upon it. And the infant moves.
Fleetwood inhales sharply, eyes locked onto the ribcage—it isn’t simply a victim within this thing, it is part of it. Felonious exhales slowly, flicking his fingers, preparing another spell—this must end before the corruption can spread further. Silverleaf tightens her grip on the bundle, water sloshing around her as she tries to climb back out—she must confirm what she holds.
Clarion presses her lips into a thin line, watching, waiting for the moment where divine intervention might change fate itself. Greegan yanks his dagger free, taking a step back, readying himself—this mound of flesh needs to die, and fast, before it engulfs them all.
The tendrils lash out, writhing, snapping through the murky water, their rubbery lengths moving with unnatural precision. Fleetwood grits his teeth as he is ensnared, the grotesque flesh curling around his limbs, dragging him toward the bloated mass. Clarion gasps as the tendrils coil around her, squeezing tight, pressing her arms against her sides—divine magic fights to surge, but the grip is unrelenting. Felonious dodges, weaving, avoiding the first strikes, his magic crackling at his fingertips— Until a tendril strikes him from the side, knocking him off his feet, sending him crashing into the scummy water—then more coil around him, locking him in place so tightly that he cannot even whisper a spell.
Greegan moves with sharp instinct, twisting, cutting, avoiding the grasping limbs with practiced precision. Silverleaf barely escapes, the tendrils grazing her leg as she leaps back, clutching the bundle close, heart hammering in her chest.
The mass groans, pulsating, shifting, feeding upon the chaos, growing stronger as it grips its prey.
Fleetwood grits his teeth, struggling against the pull. Clarion mutters a prayer beneath her breath, searching for a way to break free. Felonious clenches his fists, frustrated, knowing the next spell must count—but first, he must find a way to move. Greegan grins—sharp, defiant—his dagger flashing.
Silverleaf tears the bundle open, expecting salvation, only to find damnation— Not a baby, but a bloody sacrificial dagger, slick with dried offerings long spent. Disgust flares in her expression, and she hurls it toward the encroaching mass.
It bounces harmlessly off the rubbery flesh, swallowed by the writhing horror.
Fleetwood tightens his grip on his sword, preparing for impact, knowing they cannot withstand another onslaught. Felonious exhales sharply, magic flickering between his fingers, readying for another desperate spell.
Greegan, eyes sharp, unreadable, watching for the moment to strike.
Clarion—remembers. Elizabeth’s words to Drasha weave through her mind, pressing through the haze of the fight. She tightens her grip on the amber shard, feeling its power surge, pulse, in time with the unholy presence before her. With a supreme effort she tears her arm free of the grasping tentacles, raising the amber shard high, voice strong despite the crushing weight of the moment.
CLARION: "Walter! Release us!"
The tendrils freeze. Then—the sound. A squall, piercing, raw—a cry, an infant denied its need, denied its hunger, denied its purpose. The mass writhes, shudders, but the tendrils slacken—release their grip—let Fleetwood, Felonious, and Clarion go. For now.
CLARION: "Now! Quickly!"
The chamber erupts into frantic motion, the party striking as one, steel and spell cleaving into necrotic flesh, slashing through writhing, oozing sputum. Fleetwood drives his sword deep, muscles straining against the sheer mass, carving through rubbery tendrils. Felonious channels fire, burning through the grotesque bulk, searing away layers of corruption. Silverleaf fires, arrows splitting flesh, embedding deep, pushing the monstrosity back inch by inch. Greegan moves quickly, blade flashing, cutting, slicing, refusing to let his attacks be swallowed by the mire again.
Clarion keeps the amber shard raised, divine energy surging, pushing against the entity with every strike. And slowly—slowly—they tear the horror away from the grotesque ribcage, unearthing the tiny, writhing form of Walter, fragile, caught within the ruin of what once surrounded him. Fleetwood grits his teeth, pressing forward, cutting deeper. Felonious mutters something sharp, magic lashing outward, crackling in the dark.
Silverleaf steps closer, watching, waiting for the right moment to pull Walter free. Greegan scans for weaknesses in the quivering remains. But—the mass still quivers. It has not yet died. It knows it is losing. And it refuses to let go completely.
The trap tightens, the tendrils surging upward once more, writhing, twisting, threatening to engulf them again.
Clarion tightens her grip on the amber shard, realizing—they must act now, or be swallowed whole.
Then—a sound. Soft. Strange. Unfamiliar—yet oddly familiar.
Greegan begins to sing.
Lavender's Blue Dilly Dilly (Cinderella 2015) (Couldn’t find a version that would actually sound like Greegan would)
It startles even him, the notes falling from his lips unbidden, weaving through the stagnant air, curling into the room like breath.
Fleetwood blinks, confusion flickering across his face. Felonious tilts his head slightly, absorbing the eerie shift. Silverleaf furrows her brow, reading the inexplicable melody. Clarion inhales sharply, pulse pounding, realization dawning.
It isn’t Greegan singing. Rose’s voice filters through him, layered beneath his own, steady, clear, echoing through the chamber. Thorn takes up the tune. A small voice, fragile but insistent, pressing against the squall of the fleshy horror, weaving something familiar into something terrible.
Walter pauses. The tendrils falter. Fleetwood exhales sharply, gripping his sword tighter. Felonious murmurs something beneath his breath, watching, waiting. Silverleaf steps forward slightly, dropping the useless bundle, absorbing the change. Greegan tilts his head slightly, his voice unwavering, though his expression is one of quiet surprise.
The ribcage opens, exposing the tiny, writhing form of Walter - but Fleetwood sees now. It's part of the mass. It can't be removed. He realizes what has to be done , but his hand shakes. He can't bring himself to strike. The infant looks pink, and perfect - and totally unnatural.
ROSE in GREEGAN: (Sadly) "The heart. You have to get the heart, or it all starts again."
FLEETWOOD: (Unsure if he speaks to Rose, Clarion, the gods, or whatever horrid powers made this place) "Please. Don't make me."
The tendrils start to move again, closing around them. Training kicks in. Slow motion shot of tendrils grabbing Felonious before he can vocalize a spell, almost getting Greegan, chomping down on Silverleaf's arm with a dozen tiny mouths. Clarion screams as a tentacle drags her off her feet, toothy jaws forming in it. No one else can do it.
Slow motion shot of Fleetwood, running forward. A tentacle wraps around his ankle, but it can't chew through his greaves. In a moment, a dozen more will be on him.
A perfectly executed strike - rehearsed a thousand times until it became as second nature as breathing itself. His enchanted, glowing blade pierces the tiny form of Walter. Black fluid - maybe blood, maybe not - gushes out. A shriek - the entire house shakes as the mass begins to lose cohesion, tentacles releasing the others.
The mass shudders, its screams stretching, twisting, fading into something thinner—something unraveling. Fleetwood stands motionless, tears blinding him, breath shallow, blade still embedded within the heart of the horror. Felonious steps back, watching, calculating, but even he cannot find comfort in logic now. Silverleaf looks on in absoulte horror. Clarion presses a hand to her chest, pulse hammering, absorbing the consequences of their victory.
Greegan leaps into motion, tucking his daggers away—the fight is over. But survival is not guaranteed.
Walter’s form dissolves, sinking into necrotic sludge at Fleetwood’s feet, his twisted existence collapsing under the weight of its own undoing, regarding the warrior with a look of utter hate out of place on the face of an infant. The mass follows, pulling inward, convulsing, disintegrating into nothing but rotting remnants, black ichor spreading, spilling, curling into the stagnant water.
Then—the rumble.
Fleetwood snaps his gaze upward, inhaling sharply. The danger isn’t over yet. Felonious furrows his brow, scanning the chamber, reading the tremors shaking the very bones of this place. Silverleaf steps back slightly, adjusting her stance, preparing to run.
The truth settles in—solid, undeniable, final. All of this was Walter. Or—what he became.
And now—the house is dying. The wooden beams groan, the stone fractures, the entire structure trembles under the weight of its unraveling existence. And it wants to take them with it.
Fleetwood tightens his grip on his blade, pulling it free, stepping back quickly. He barks the only order that makes sense.
Fleetwood: “RUN!”
Felonious mutters something beneath his breath, preparing to weave magic into their escape if necessary.
Silverleaf nods once, shifting her grip, ready to move.
Clarion prepares to sprint, holding onto the last fragments of her divine protection.
Greegan grins—sharp, breathless, tired—but victorious. He whoops once and begins to run.
The party flees through falling masonry, splashing water - looking for safety - looking for exit.
Fade to black
End Credits continue over: House of Doom